


All That Might've Been

by smoakmonster



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, alternative ending, blame the muse not the messenger, kinda sorta but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 14:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10699137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoakmonster/pseuds/smoakmonster
Summary: An alternative version of events, in which Gaston accidentally shoots Belle instead of Beast. Belle dies, though not before declaring her love and breaking the curse. But is it too late? Or can the enchantress still undo what’s been done?





	All That Might've Been

**Author's Note:**

  * For [myforevermoment](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=myforevermoment).



> Based on [this prompt](http://bellesdiaries.tumblr.com/post/159393679036/myforevermoment-myforevermoment-okay-this). 
> 
> Okay, my friend. You wanted angst, so I have to warn you. I BROUGHT THE ANGST. Even knowing it was going to end happily, this was still pretty intense. Enjoy!

“No!”

He stops climbing at the sound of her voice. True to her namesake, her voice rings out across the wide expanse, echoing off collapsing rooftops like a siren, like a beacon calling him home.

For a moment, he truly believes he's lost his mind along with his heart, that as he scrambles to cling to unstable shingles, his deepest self-preservation has somehow miraculously, cruelly conjured up her voice from among the chaos. And if this is truly his end...well, at least he’ll have gotten to hear her one last time.

But then he turns and...his heart feels like it might soar right out of his chest. Could it really be? Can he dare to hope?

There she stands--a vision in white, like a dove on her perch, like a saint in her steeple, like a bride waiting for him at the altar.

_Belle?_

He scurries, moving with rejuvenated energy to the highest point on the tower he can reach, utterly unconcerned about disclosing his location to whoever may be lurking about to kill him.

“Belle!” he cries out to her, calling her name with every fiber of his being, needing her to know that he knows she’s here.

Her eyes lock with his right away, and immediately his chest loosens and his body sags with relief and hope and wonder.

She’s _here_. She’s come back.

He can scarcely believe it, except he knows he would never allow himself the luxury or the comfort of hallucinating her physical presence back in this dark place. While it seems impossible that she’s here, he knows she’s real.

Belle is here and yet still so far away, and his heart aches to be close to her.  

“I tried to stop them!” she yells, and it takes him a moment to realize she’s referring to the mob invading his castle. But of course she did, his brave Belle.

He shakes his head a bit, because the crowd is _not_ what matters most to him at the moment. They can tear this castle to pieces for all he cares. No, what matters most is being near her again as soon as possible and telling her what he should have told her ages ago.

“Stay there, I’m coming to you!”

_Please stay. Please never be out of sight._

Wincing through the pain in his shoulder where that man-- _Gaston_ \--shot him, he leaps from roof to roof; with every jump, he grows more desperate. Oh, _why_ did this castle have to be so vast? It seems like an eternity before he finally reaches the ledge adjacent to her, just one giant leap away--

He’s struck down by heavy stone slamming into his back, scraping against his searing wound. The pain is so raw, so deep that he cries out and almost collapses right there. But he can’t stop...he can’t stop fighting. She’s so _close_ . He stumbles to get back up just as Gaston breaks off another piece of stone and slings it against his shoulder, and he hits the wall _hard_ . He groans against the pain. He barely has time to _breathe_ before he gets hit _again_.

He stumbles backward onto the ramp, and as he falls he can _feel_ the foundation quaking beneath his weight. This castle won’t last through the night, if that blasted enchantress gets her way. Considering his current state, he’ll be lucky to make it through the night as well.

He sees the _hate_ in his enemy’s eyes as he marches towards him. He’s seen that hate before, in the mirror, or etched into his father’s features as he sent yet again for that poor whipping boy...oh, what was his name? Gilbert? Hubert? Rarely does he ever think back to the time of his stolen adolescence, when he learned to be callous just to stop his father’s cruelty; but he supposes it’s only just...at his impending doom to recall all the past sins that have led him to this very moment.

“Gaston, don’t! Leave him alone!”

Her cry pierces him through the pain straight to his heart. She’s begging for him to live. She’s still _fighting._ And like always, her strength alone is enough to inspire him to determination.

He rises and spins just in time to snatch the makeshift stone weapon from Gaston’s wielding. They wrestle for some time; and while Gaston is strong, he knows that if there’s one beneficial thing about the physical form he currently possesses, it’s that he is in fact _stronger_.

He can feel Gaston’s grip slipping just before he yanks the stone out of his hands and sends it flying, tumbling twenty stories below.

He takes Gaston by surprise, advancing on him with the grace of a tiger stalking its prey. Just before he strikes, he can practically _smell_ Gaston’s fear through the sweat of his brow, can almost hear the racing of his tiny, timid heartbeat, can sense the shift in his stance, now that the tables have turned.

When he knows he has him cornered, he lunges, easily clutching Gaston’s frail neck within his claws, squeezing his skin just enough to make the man struggle. He hauls him out over the edge of the tower, bending the once proud warrior to his will, forcing him to shuffle his legs like a helpless creature, to wrestle against the chokehold in vain, to beg for mercy or perish by the simple unclasping of his hand.

And beg this poor fool _does_.

“Don’t let me go. Please! I’ll do anything.”

His entire body feels like it’s on _fire_ , the rage surging through his veins, as years of built-up anger funnel into this single act. Oh, it would be so _easy_ to just let go, to watch all his problems fall down into the abyss along with this foe.

As though sensing what he’s on the verge of doing, his opponent’s grip grows more desperate, and he gasps, “Don't hurt me, beast!”

He freezes. Ice fills his heart, instantly chilling his veins. It’s been winter in the castle for what feels like decades, but only now has he ever felt so _cold_.

What is he _doing_?

And then he sees her, just out of the corner of his eye, standing on the outer ring of the West Wing, valiantly making his hideaway her haven, like the very beating heart of this place. Even in her serene silence, she calls to him.

She wouldn’t want him to do this.

And he realizes with a start like lightning in his chest, as much as he feels it like a gradual, peaceful sunrise coming over him, that _he_ does not want to do this either. This is _not_ who he is, who he’s become. He is better than before. If he kills this man...he truly will have become a depraved creature. And he doesn’t want that. He wants to prove Belle’s faith in him _right_.

Slowly, he pulls the man back towards him, to meet him face-to-face, to see the terror in the whites of his eyes.

“I am _not_ a beast.”

He growls just once, just because he can, just a small threat and a sign that the fighting has ceased.

And then he tosses Gaston against the pavement, feeling the knot in his chest loosen as the man scurries down the steps to get away from him. _Good riddance._

“Go! Get out!”

As soon as he turns back, he sees her waiting for him still, and the man is forgotten. On instinct, his body is already crouching, already remembering what his primary task was from the moment she returned.  

“You can’t, it’s...it’s too far!” she protests, and oh how he _loves_ her for the worry in her voice.

But he doesn’t have time to argue with her about this. He needs to be at her side _now_. He can make the jump. He _will_ make it.

He runs, leaps...

And then, at last, he’s kneeling, panting on the ledge in front of her. Even kneeling down, he’s almost equal in height with her petite figure, almost level with those warm eyes. She keeps him trapped with her mesmerizing gaze as he rises. He can’t tear his eyes away from the relief and the... _hope?_ he sees shining back in her eyes. She’s so beautiful, it leaves him breathless, even if he wasn’t already winded from the fight.

When he draws himself back up to his full height, she smiles at him, and he can’t help the easy smile he feels returning. He never thought he’d have a reason to smile again, and yet here she stands. He wants to reach out to her, to take her in his arms, to tell her… But he’s too afraid of scaring her away again. He thought he’d have to wait an eternity; surely a few moments more won’t be the death of him.

They stare at each other for a long, tender moment, and she’s on the verge of saying something, when...her eyes flicker to something just over his shoulder. The joy leaves her face instantly, replaced by dread and fear, and he can guess what the problem is.

Time seems to slow down. Before he can even _react_ , she’s already darting in front of him, her hands scrambling all over his arms, as she clearly _tries_ to push him, even though he’s at least ten times the size of her.

“ _NO!_ ”

Her scream rings in his ears, and his entire body goes into a panic, as every single blasted hair on his body stands upright in alarm.

The gun goes off again.

xxx

 _Pain_.

Her mind goes numb with white-hot pain--so much worse than anything she’s ever felt--like that time she accidentally burnt her hand on the iron stove and Papa helped soothe her for hours. Only, this searing agony is different and so much worse. The pain is _everywhere_ ... overwhelming every muscle, every bone. Facing ravenous wolves or a ravenous mob is nothing compared to _this_ , and nothing she does can make it stop.

The last thing she remembers is screaming before the excruciating throbbing began. Is she still screaming? It’s possible she’ll never stop screaming.

She’s aware just enough to realize that the earth is beginning to tilt. She’s falling…and she’s too weak with shock to stop it.

Oh, Papa...she won't get to say goodbye to him.

Warm, _familiar_ , and incredibly soft arms catch her and pull her close before she’s even really lost her footing. Oh, yes. She feels safe and cherished in these arms. Her fingers dig into the warmth of his fur, relishing the way his large hand cups the back of her head. She can _rest_ now, fall asleep just like this and be happy. She tilts her head as far back as it will go to find him already watching her, and the horrified look on his face nearly shatters her heart.  

She frowns, wanting to reach out to him, but her arms seem to have lost the will to move. He’s never looked at her that way before, so anxious, so closed off. For the first time, she doesn’t understand what his eyes are saying; she has no way of reading him.

“Belle.”

The gentle horror in his voice is enough to tell her something is terribly wrong.

 _What is it?_ she tries to ask, but her lips are shaking, and her throat has gone dry.

_“Belle!”_

Someone else--another voice--is calling for her in fear, but she can barely comprehend it above the echo of her own racing heartbeat flooding her ears. All she can focus on is _him_ and those wonderful bright blue eyes, eyes that seem to stare straight into her soul and want her anyway, eyes that act as her anchor, eyes that are so compassionate, so kind...

When his eyes finally shift and break their hold over her, she follows his hesitant gaze downward... She nearly gasps, except, her lungs are tight, so her reaction comes out as a garbled whimper.

She watches his large hand, shaking over the dark stain of her dress, seeing as the red pool grows wider and wider. He hesitates, like he’s afraid that touching her will somehow make her worse. Oh, but his touch will make her better. She’s sure of it.

Somehow, she finds the strength to grab his hand and press his palm straight into her dress. That seems to wake him from whatever shock he’d fallen into.

As soon as his hand makes contact with her blood, he jumps, removing his touch just as quickly, and her body immediately feels cold at the loss. But he only pulls back just enough to push his other arm under her back and lift her off the cold pavement and up against his chest. He carries her through the West Wing straight to his bed, and she briefly enjoys feeling his strong heartbeat thump against her ear.

He lays her down gently on the deep maroon velvet covers, which is perfect, she thinks, because the blood stains won’t show up as much. And as though he can read her thoughts, he hurriedly grabs the first strip of bedding he can and presses it firmly, deeply into her skin with one hand, while the other works to lift her head as he comes to sit beside her on the bed, just like she did for him all those days-- _oh, has it really been weeks?_ \--ago.

Though, as comfortable as his pillows are, she thinks that she would much rather be cocooned back in his arms. And bless him, in the next moment, he grants her wish, as he pulls her entire body back into his lap. She wonders if maybe he _can_ hear her thoughts after all.

As they settle into a new stillness, the pain in her chest keeps building, and she winces against the pressure at her stomach; but otherwise she thinks she’s doing alright keeping herself calm. She can be strong for him. Besides, they’re together now. Everything will be fine.

He keeps surveying the damage, always briefly, never breaking eye contact with her for more than few seconds, as though he cannot keep himself from looking away for too long, as though he’s having trouble believing that she’s really here.

She smiles at his meticulous care of her wound. For someone who gave her so much grief when he was injured, he seems to be a natural caregiver. And why shouldn’t he be? He is so naturally affectionate once you get to know him. She's missed being away from him. She's missed _him_.

As though to prove the truth of this even further, his large thumb brushes a few stray hairs out of her face, and she responds in kind, pressing her weak but still active palm against the back of his hand now cupping her face.

_Hm. That’s better._

And the way he’s watching her now is peaceful and delightful. She feels...so _warm_ , so protected. She feels _home_.

“Belle.” He says her name like it’s the most important word in the world. “Just hold on. I’ll--I’ll find a way to...”

“It’s alright,” she interrupts, trying to shake her head, but his hand has her neck trapped.

He gives her such an admonishing look that she almost laughs. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

She frowns. As if she’d had a choice in the matter. “I couldn’t let him…” She tries to explain but her voice gives out and she goes into a brief, endless coughing fit, heaving and shaking. She can feel the blood rising in the back of her throat, choking her from the inside out, but she manages not to cough it up completely.

When she’s finally breathing normally again--well, almost normally, he stares at her again, and she notices all the frustration from before has vanished. She wonders what’s changed, what’s caused him to regard her in that favorite way of hers, so open and honest and still a bit wistful.

“You came back.”

He sounds so surprised, so in awe, that she can't help but respond in kind to assuage his fears.

“Of course I came back.” And then, because she’s somehow found her voice again, she feels the need to tell him everything while she still can. “I...I came home to you. And I...I promise I won’t...I won’t leave you again. Although, if I do, it’s not by choice...”

She heaves as scorching pain shoots up her spine.

His grip on her hand tightens. “Belle, don’t talk. Save your strength.”

She can feel herself slipping away, but she doesn’t want to leave him. Not yet. Not ever.

_Please. Let me stay a little while longer._

The way he’s taking care of her now. He’s so gentle, so good, so... _loving_. Just as he’s always been...well, maybe not always. But just before she left she'd realized how much he'd changed. And yet, it feels like he's always been this way? Maybe she was finally noticing him, too.

His touch makes her feel _loved._

And now she knows. She gasps with the revelation of it, as warm honey fills her belly, or maybe it’s still the blood, but she honestly doesn’t care. All she can focus on his the way he watches her, those piercing blue eyes fixated upon her. She tries to smile, but she’s having trouble controlling her muscles at the moment. She wishes she could see his smile one last time.

But she manages to grasp his large fingers within her own and hold them tight, which to him probably doesn't feel like much, but she wants him to know she's trying. She loves how soft he is, how warm, how...wonderful...

“I...I love you,” she breathes.

xxx

His heart gets stuck in his throat, and he’s far too consumed with the fact that her eyes are starting to glaze over and her touch grows weaker with every passing second to truly comprehend the truth of her words.

“Belle--” he pleads.

“I’m not afraid.”

“Belle, please--”

“Don’t forget me--”

“How could I--”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish. Her eyes fall shut, and her head drops back against the pillow with a soft plop. Her whole being goes stone still, the room instantly cooler. Ice slips down his spine. Where once there was vibrancy and life...now, everything is empty.

“BELLE!”

 _Not her. Not her, too._ He can’t lose the only other woman he’s ever loved in this same cursed room.

He desperately reaches for her, cupping her face, even shaking her a little bit--or maybe that’s just his hands shaking uncontrollably--trying to get her to wake up. But with every passing, miserable second, he _knows_...he knows it’s useless.

Ice melts into fire inside him. And as the fury spreads through his veins, he does the unthinkable. He _roars_. Like the beast he’s become. Like the monster he’ll remain forever without her. It was different when he sent her away--at least then he’d understood that she could have a happy, full life. But now...

“Is this what you wanted?!” he cries, his words echoing off lifeless halls and tattered paintings. When his words go unanswered, safe for the howling wind outside, he cries out again, but this time it's more like a wail. Then, like a helpless, wounded animal, he crawls to her, scooping her limp form up into his arms, cradling her close while still keeping her injury tightly covered.

He's determined to watch over her until...until her father comes to find her or the end comes for him. Whichever arrives first. He's not leaving her side. While he didn’t get to hold his mother when she died, he’s never letting go of her. He pulls her in close, her head falling against his chest at an unnatural angle, and she feels even smaller than before cocooned in his embrace like this.

He doesn’t know when, but he realizes at some point in the night that he’s begun rocking them both, and that the reason he’s having trouble taking in a full breath is because of the tears. He heaves and gasps and struggles to even _think_. This can’t be real. How could he have gained everything and then... _lost_ it all in the same minute? _He_ deserved death, not her. Anyone but her.

“Please,” he whispers to no one and anyone. “Please don’t take her away from me. Please, I’ll do anything...I’ll send her away again; I’ll never see her, just please...please let her _live_.”

He's become the beggar, struggling against the clasp around his soul, asking for shelter from this bitter hell. Only he has nothing to offer in exchange but himself, an easy trade to make on his end but perhaps not for whoever may be listening.

He’s moving before he can stop himself, allowing himself one last little gift, even though she’s already given him so much. Gently, tentatively, he leans down to kiss her forehead, and her soft skin is still a little warm. And it’s enough to make him _hope_ just for a second that maybe...maybe she’s…

“Belle, I...I love you.” He rakes his fingers through her silky hair, wishing he'd had the courage to say it while she had still been here.

And then he weeps once more into her hair, continually rocking them back and forth. At first, he dwells on the inevitable eternity of having to go on without her, and that sends frigid terror and agony through his heart. It hurts far too much. After a while, the pain in his chest changes, gradually, subtly, like a poisonous vine wrapping around a tree; something else becomes planted and starts to fester in his heart, something bitterly _familiar_ . Something stronger. Easier. Anger. _Hate_.

For a moment, he considers leaving and hunting down that man-- _Gaston_ \--the same way he was hunted, to make him suffer for what he’s done, to rip him apart like he would a pack of wolves, to tear away every piece of him like his very heart has been torn.

But then, as soon as his mind settles there, a deeper, purer pang shoots right through him, sharper and surer than the bullet; a different, quieter nudge brushes up against his soul, as he dares to study the face of the woman who will forever haunt him.

She wouldn't want him to.

He exhales a heavy breath, his body sinking into the mattress, as all the rage he was carrying dissipates like rolling clouds at the end of a storm.

He can't avenge her. He can't even lose himself in anger again...because of her. He's lost her and lost any desire he once had for making that kind reckless, selfish, _wrong_ choice. He thinks about _Romeo and Juliet_...and how he wants to both burn every existing copy of that wretched story...or lock them away in a golden chest as a memoir to her. He'll spend an eternity trying to make the right choices...for her, without her, needing her, missing her, loving her.

“Forgive me,” he whispers, kissing her forehead once more and waiting with her wrapped in his arms, in the bedroom that has once again become a tomb...for evermore.

xxx

Except, eternity comes to a halt quicker than he expected.

He spends what must be _hours_ clinging to her perfect, delicate, limp body...torturing himself by sensing every second that she grows colder and colder.

Until suddenly he feels very _warm_ , like the sun is finally rising, only it’s still the midst of night. And he realizes that the warmth is not coming from her. It’s coming from _him_ , shining all around him and consuming him. He blinks and...instantly he’s back in the dancing hall all those dreadful years ago, kneeling in front of a powerful sorceress as torment like thorns puncture the very fabric of him, imprisoning him within a cavern he cannot control.

_No. No not again. Don’t take me away from her. Not now._

He tries to fight it, tries to cling to her for as long as possible, but the golden tornado envelopes him, pulling him away from her. As she slips out of his hands, he starts to rise, and he’s almost _certain_ he can see _her_ \--the witch--watching him from across the West Wing, standing so lofty and overbearing beside the broken glass chamber, where her instrument of torture used to reside.

He starts. The rose. It’s vanished.

So that must mean...this is truly his end. And he’s leaving this world with Belle, now that the rose is gone. Oh, he almost laughs. How absurd he once considered _Romeo and Juliet_ to be, but now... Belle was right again. Of course he’s meant to die in the same manner he once mocked. If only she were here to laugh with him about it.

He hopes, wherever he’s going, that he’ll get to hear her laugh just once more.

Maybe it’s better this way. While he’s not sure he believes in the afterlife, he’s willing to try if it means seeing Belle again. Though they’re unlikely to end up in the same place.

He tries to spin to look back at her, but the spell becomes too powerful and too bright it’s blinding... He has to shut his eyes against the abrupt sunlight blazing in its warmth, though this time, the storm of light carries a different sort of power. Not painful. Not trapping.

No, instead he feels...

 _Lighter_.

It’s over in the span of a heartbeat or a millennium. He’s not sure which.

All he’s aware of is that he’s descending, and unexpectedly the tornado evaporates, leaving him...standing? Except he feels much shorter than he was just moments ago. He tries to move and nearly falls over. His balance is completely off. He looks down and nearly falls over anyway at the sight of... _skin_ . Raw, pale skin before his very eyes. He moves his _hands_ \--very small, human hands--and inspects them, subconsciously looking for any signs of fur or claws or that this has all been a dream.

He’s...he’s a _man_.

Which means... Of course. Her final words. She really does love him.

She _did_ love him.

It was just too late.

He swallows acidic bile in his throat.

The curse has been lifted, but he feels more like a prisoner than ever. The outside world holds nothing for him now...not without her.

He is saved. He just couldn’t save her.

The relief of being human again is replaced by another wave of fury. What use is he as a man if he doesn’t get to spend his days being the man who loves _her_ in return? What good is he reentering the land of the living, if he can’t live with her?

Desperately, he comes back to her, throwing himself back to where she lies, furiously trying to cover her body back up with these blasted old sheets...which have seemed to mysteriously shifted and...and wasn’t there more blood than this? How is she...?

He touches her face and.. _.no_.

He jumps back, startled.

It’s impossible. She can’t be... She feels _warm_. He leans in close, and he swears he must be going mad--his mind is already so lost without her, that he’s crafting make believe that the little flutter in her chest is a sign that she’s actually breathing and that her skin feels as perfect and vibrant as ever and...

Her eyes flutter.

His lips part in surprise.

She stirs.

He steps back, too stunned, too confused, too forlorn to dare hope...

“Impossible.”

xxx

Belle opens her eyes to a dim but comfortable room, and she realizes this must be heaven. Strange, it’s not as bright or...cheery as she imagined it would be. But despite the fact that the pain has all gone, what convinces her of this heavenly realm _most_ is the man standing over her, gazing at her like he’s never seen anything more captivating. Though he doesn’t have any wings and his white apparel leaves something to be desired, he looks like he must be an angel, because she’s sure she’s never seen anyone so beautiful before in her life. He is simply radiant.

He approaches her slowly, a little unsure.

“Belle?”

He walks, though more like stumbles, on quiet, unsteady barefeet to kneel beside the bed, holding out his hand to her in invitation. She hesitates, but something about him seems...familiar. Gentle. _Safe_. She slips her hand into his welcoming palm, and he slowly pulls her into a standing position with him

She looks around and then realizes with a start...she’s still here. She’s still in the castle.

Quickly, she glances down, expecting to find a blood-soaked underdress or a gash or _something._ But the blood seems to have vanished. She’s completely...unblemished. Like it never even happened.

And then she notices...he’s vanished, too.

“Where is he?” she asks the stranger still holding her hand, while frantically searching the otherwise empty West Wing. The rose has disappeared as well. Does that mean he is _gone_ forever? No. How could he be gone while she is still here? How could he abandon her without saying goodbye?

“Where's my friend?”

When she tries to pull away, the stranger just pulls her closer.

“ _Belle_ ,” he says, his tone imploring, and something about his voice makes her pause. The way he says her name, like they’re old friends, like...like he _knows_ her.

But she’s never seen this man before in her life. Hasn’t she? And yet...

She hesitates, but then draws closer, an inexplicable pull guiding her towards him. Somehow, she knows...she can trust him. She’s moving closer before she can stop herself, curiosity and hope overtaking her. He waits patiently, watching her with wide, childlike eyes that seem to call her name even in the silence. She reaches up, touching his smooth, inviting face.  

And then she looks, really _looks_ , lured in by the capture of his gaze that has remained fixated on her. She searches his face to find something familiar and--those _eyes_ \--oh, she knows those eyes. She knows that perfect shade of blue, like a summer sky, with those little white and golden flakes that sparkle like stars. She knows that mischievous twinkle, and somehow he always seems to be smiling with his eyes.

_It is him._

Her dear friend. Her truest companion. Her sole love.

She lets out a desperately happy gasp, one that he echoes, as his small _er_ but just as gentle hand begins caressing her cheek, touching her hair, pulling her in closer, until they’re just a breath apart. And suddenly, she can’t wait a moment longer. She needs him to know. She needs to _show_ him, needs to feel him.

She practically leaps to press her lips against his, taking them both by surprise. But he doesn't pull away. He meets her with warm, eager affection, kissing her back like he’s a dying man in a desert and she’s a fountain. She’s never kissed anyone before--and suddenly, all those stories make sense. The way their lips move together...it’s as if they have a mind of their own, desperate but easy, frantic but calm. She imagined that being kissed would be a lovely sensation, especially when it was with the man she loved, but she never imagined it would feel like _this_. Perhaps she just got very lucky and found someone who knows how to kiss her very well.

As if to prove his knowledge to her, he opens his lips to deepen the kiss, tilting his head a bit, and she follows him. She feels his uncertain but tender hands come up around her back, as her own hands fall to his chest, enjoying the feel of his racing pulse beneath her palm. Oh, is that what her heart is doing right now too?

After a while, they finally break apart when their need for air becomes too great, smiling against each other’s skin. She sinks easily into his welcoming embrace and rests her head on his shoulder--she can actually _reach_ his shoulder now, and for some reason that makes her smile with delight. She takes full advantage of this opportunity, using their newfound closeness to run her hand over his smaller but still broad chest, to run her fingers playfully through his fine blonde hair that feels just as soft as before, to lay her hand against the skin at the back of his neck, now so much closer within her reach.

There are so many changes to catalog, she can hardly believe it’s really him. And yet, he smells the same, like dusty oak and candlewax and _home._  And the way he’s been looking at her and continues to hold her now, she _knows_ it’s him.

This must mean the curse has been broken, though she doesn’t know how. But surely he does?

She bites her lower lip and looks up at him, surprised but pleased to find him already staring at her. Her curiosity nearly gets the better of her, and she’s about to ask him her first in a litany of questions, when he gently pushes some of her hair away from her face and gives her that playful half-smile, and she recognizes it immediately--it’s the same one he gave her when they read together on the bridge by the frozen lake; the same one he gave her when they slurped bowls of tomato soup; the same one he gave her just before...just before she almost lost him.

His eyes tell her everything she needs to know. While he’s hesitant in action, his eyes are steady and certain, and his stillness calms the racing of her anxious mind.

And then, in a voice her ears don’t yet recognize but one that her heart swells to hear, he says, “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please feel free to leave a comment or come visit me on tumblr to talk about your feelings!


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